


No Splashing

by missmichellebelle



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Bubble Bath, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shut up and get in the bathtub, Darren.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Splashing

“I don’t know how I feel about you being in my house when I’m not here,” Chris mutters, barely in the door when Darren is popping around the corner and grabbing him by the wrist. He hadn’t even given Chris the opportunity to scream and hit him with his bag.

“If you didn’t like it, you wouldn’t have given me a key,” Darren replies in a sing-song.

“You knowing where I keep the spare is not giving you a key, Dare.”

He just shrugs carelessly, not missing a beat in his step and Chris lets out a sigh. He’ll have to change his hiding place.  _Again_. Even though Darren treats it as a game every single time—like Chris is  _challenging_  him. He doesn’t even know how Darren reached over the eave.

“So are you going to tell me  _why_  you’re here?” Chris gripes as he’s tugged up the stairs and… Towards his bedroom. Huh.

“All in due time, Christopher.”

Chris quirks an eyebrow in interest now, a smile playing at his lips, and  _maybe_  his steps become a little less reluctant and dragging. Maybe ( _not_  that he’d ever admit it). After all, bad things don’t happen in the bedroom, right?

Chris conveniently forgets the time Darren replaced his mattress with a waterbed.

But there doesn’t seem to be a waterbed, or something incredibly cliché (and,  _okay_ , sort of romantic) like rose petals scattered over Chris’s comforter. In fact, there is nothing particularly noteworthy at all about his bedroom.

“Why—”

But Darren is still tugging him along, bypassing the bedroom altogether and heading straight into the master bath. Chris’s footsteps slow again and his mouth sets in a confused frown, his eyebrows pinched together.

“Why did you bring me to my bathroom?”

He’s a little afraid to find out, actually.

Darren is bouncing on the balls of his feet and he turns around and then makes a grand, flourishing gesture towards Chris’s bath.

Which is full of bubbles.

“What is that?” Chris asks in a deadpan, and Darren turns and looks at him.

“Judging you so hard right now, Christopher.” Chris sends Darren an unamused look. “It’s a bubble bath.”

Chris rolls his eyes.

“Yes, obviously. Bubbles. In a bath. Why are there bubbles in  _my_  bath?”

Darren’s judgement swiftly (how does he even  _change_  expressions that fast?) turns into a pout.

“Can’t a guy draw a bath for his boyfriend?” He bats his eyes in a way that is completely unfair.

“Did you just use the phrase ‘draw a bath’?” Chris asks, ignoring the way his heart beat  _mysteriously_  picks up at the casual use of the word  _boyfriend_.

“You’re missing the point.”

“I didn’t know people still spoke like that.”

“The point of this. You’re missing it.”

“You should be wearing a waistcoat; I feel like I just stepped into a Jane Austen novel.”

“This is what happens when I try to be romantic.”

“Or maybe an episode of Downton Abbey.”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“I find myself to be of very good humor, Mr. Criss, although you appear to be sorely lacking such a trait,” Chris responds in his best attempt at a British accent. Darren walks toward him and immediately begins to dig through his pockets, extracting important things—like Chris’s phone and the five dollar bill he’d found wedged in the seat of his car. “Mr. Criss!” Chris gasps in mock shock. “This is quite improper!”

“That’s me. Super improper,” Darren mutters.

“I find you rather insufferable, I must—what are you doing?” Chris’s character slips as Darren maneuvers him around, before grabbing him firmly around the waist and grinning at him.

“Your bath awaits, good sir.”

Chris isn’t sure what’s happening until he feels his legs swept out from under him and  _shit_ , he always forgets how surprisingly strong Darren is until he’s suddenly lifting Chris from the ground.

“What are you—”

And then Darren sets Chris in the bath, clothes and all.

The water is ridiculously warm and amazing, but it doesn’t stop Chris from sitting there, stock still, and staring at Darren with his mouth open.

“You just—I’m still in my clothes!”

“Yes, well, you were too busy making fun of me to get in the bath, so I decided it was a much better idea to just… Make you!” Darren grins, as if pleased with himself. “And now that you are, you should probably take off your clothes.”

“Seduction at its finest,” Chris says dryly, already pulling his sopping wet t-shirt off over his head. “You know, generally the undressing comes  _first_.”

“Well, maybe next time you’ll cooperate, hmm?” Darren says, tilting his head up and taking Chris’s shirt from him when it’s offered.

“You’re annoying, and I hate you, and do you know how impossible it is to get wet jeans off,  _ugh_ ,” he groans, wiggling in the water as he attempts to slide them off his legs and splashing water over the side of the tub.

“It might help if you stand up.”

“And reward you? No chance in hell,” Chris mutters, and Darren rolls his eyes. Eventually Chris annoyingly slaps his jeans—and underwear—over the side of the tub and Darren dutifully takes them and slings them over the glass door of the adjoining shower.

Chris has to admit the warm water feels amazing against his skin and he can’t even  _remember_  the last time he did something as simple as take a bubble bath. Baths just usually take up too much time; it’s easier to hop through the shower and then be on to the next task on his endless to-do list. It’s easy to forget how good soaking in hot water can be. He hasn’t even realized that he’s closed his eyes and let his head fall back until he hears a quiet chuckle.

When he looks, Darren has his chin propped on the edge of the tub and he’s smiling at Chris in a look of pure victory and accomplishment.

“Dork,” Chris mutters, and Darren only smiles wider.

“I’m thinking my efforts weren’t completely gratuitous, then.”

Chris rolls his eyes.

“Are you going to just sit there and stare at me?” Chris asks instead of acknowledging Darren’s statement. “Like some sort of pervert?”

“Mmm, right, you caught me. I’m totally a pervert.”

“You know, a part of me always knew.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmm.” Chris lets his arm float on the surface of the water, but it’s almost entirely obscured by the foamy bubbles on top. “The part that always notices you staring at my ass.”

Darren scrunches his nose at him, flicking water in his direction.

“No splashing,” Chris mutters back. “No, but really. Aren’t you getting in?” Chris doesn’t really think Darren is a pervert, but he’s less likely to be able to sit back and relax knowing that Darren is just sitting there on the tiled floor and watching him. Darren just quirks an eyebrow. “Don’t even say anything about there not being enough room. This tub can fit like eight people.”

“And you know this…?” Darren starts, intrigued.

“Shut up and get in the bathtub, Darren.”

With a shrug and not even a show of contemplation, Darren tugs his shirt over his head and then proceeds to leave a pool of his clothes on the bathroom floor. Chris folds his arms on the edge of the tub, where porcelain turns to tile, watching Darren unabashedly. It’s not like he’s putting on any sort of show, but he quirks an eyebrow in Chris’s direction and then pops his hip dramatically.

“Like what you see?” Darren purrs, and Chris lets his eyes trail over the cut of Darren’s neck and shoulders, tracing the contours of his arms and the dip of his waist. His gaze dips lower, over the lines of Darren’s stomach and hips to where his cock hangs, dark and soft, between his toned thighs. Chris can feel the stir of interest low in his abdomen (but notes that Darren doesn’t so much as  _twitch_  under Chris’s scrutiny), and bites down on his lip.

“Eh,” he finally says, his voice not as controlled and steady as he’d like, but enough. Darren’s eyebrows drop low and his nose scrunches up again.

“Fine,” he sighs, “I see how it is. I work so hard, preparing a bubble bath, and  _this_  is the thanks I get.”

“You sound like you need a vacation,” Chris deadpans.

“Right?” Darren grins at him and then is quickly sliding into the tub. There’s too much water, and Darren’s body displaces enough that it splashes and streams over the edge.

“You’re going to flood my bathroom,” Chris gripes as Darren settles across from him, legs to the side of Chris’s so that his toes could brush Darren’s hip and they’re sealed all along their calves and thighs. It’s warm, even in the hot water, and makes something loosen inside of Chris and disappear.

“Even in a bubble bath, you are such a grown up,” Darren teases, flicking more water in Chris’s direction. “Lighten up. Have some fun.”

“I think I’ll close my eyes and go to sleep. That counts as fun, right?” Chris lets his head thunk back, reveling in the hot press of the water and how it seems to draw out his stress.  _Dammit_. He doesn’t know how Darren always knows when Chris needs these things, but he  _does_. It’s both infuriating and absolutely amazing.

“Sleeping is for after, man.”

Chris snorts and opens one of his eyes, watching Darren.

“Isn’t this about relaxing?” He asks, and Darren smiles.

“Of course, but you have to learn there’s more ways to relax than sleeping.”

“Mmhmm,” Chris hums, letting his eyes fall shut again. “Like sex.” The grin pulls his lips into a smirk as Darren splutters in surprise.

“Naughty, naughty, Christopher.”

Chris just shrugs his shoulder, the water lapping around the movement, and smiles as Darren presses his toes against the side of Chris’s thigh. He wiggles them, trying to find that ticklish spot that he knows Chris has, so Chris knocks his foot away.

“Don’t make me kick you out of my bubble bath.”

“Bubble bath inviter take-backer.”

Chris can’t stop chuckling at that, picking up his head (it feels so heavy suddenly) and staring over at Darren with the kind of amusement that threatens to crack his face in half.

“Did you really just call me a take-backer?”

“I think take-backer is a regretfully underused insult.”

“Not if you’re six,” Chris mutters, and then yelps as Darren’s toes wiggle close again and find the spot. “I will tickle your foot, Dare, don’t think I won’t!”

Darren withdraws just as fast, chuckling and hugging his knee close to his chest. The top of it sticks out of the water—Chris can just see it through the hazy cover of bubbles—and Darren rests his chin against it. Somehow his curls are already slightly damp, maybe from the steam rising lazily from the surface of the bathwater, and he’s staring at Chris in that intent way that makes his skin feel like it’s vibrating.

Chris sort of wants to pull him close and wash his hair. He knows that Darren would let him.

“When I was little, I couldn’t get enough of bubble baths,” Darren says, apropos of nothing. Darren doesn’t like silence the way Chris has always enjoyed it; if he’s not talking, he’s singing, or humming, or laughing, or doing any other number of things that keep the quiet from pressing in. But Darren has his own sort of silence, at times, that reminds Chris of summer nights or rainfall; it’s something without really being anything at all, and Chris falls into it like a comfortable blanket.

“I used to—hang on.” There’s a glint in Darren’s eyes and a certain slant to his smile, and then he’s gathering bubbles in front of him until they almost obscure his face.

Chris is halfway through beginning to ask what the fuck he’s doing, when Darren lifts his head to reveal a rather impressive bubble beard. It takes Chris less than a second to start laughing. Darren’s lips are pressed together, like he’s trying to hold the laughter in himself, and he’s stroking at the bubbles while trying to look pensive.

“Are you going for Freud or Santa?” Chris asks through laughter, rubbing at his eyes carefully to avoid getting any of the suds in them. Darren blinks for a few minutes and then lets his grin break.

“Ho ho ho!” Darren laughs, jovially. “Why don’t you come and tell Santa Criss what you want?” Chris can see the waves in the water as Darren pats his lap enthusiastically.

“Santa Criss?”

“Do you prefer Darren Claus?”

Chris just quirks an eyebrow and Darren goes, “ho ho ho, get the fuck in my lap, Christopher!”

“Why, Santa, who knew you had such colorful vocabulary?”

But Darren is reaching over and grabbing Chris by the wrist, impatient (again) for him to move. Chris allows himself to be tugged, Darren twisting him around and parting his legs until they are pressed firmly back-to-chest.

“This isn’t quite in your lap.” But Chris lets himself melt into the embrace, eyes fluttering at the feel of Darren’s chest all along his back. They’re sealed together, Darren popping his knees until his thighs snugly bracket Chris in place; he tries, and fails, to ignore the way Darren’s cock is pressed between his ass cheeks and nudging at the small of his back.

Darren doesn’t respond, just noses at the back of Chris’s head until his lips brush the shell of Chris’s ear.

“Can I wash your hair?” He asks, and Chris shudders at the sensation, leaning back into the warmth of Darren’s breath until he’s kissing gently at Chris’s ear. Chris doesn’t know why Darren even bothers to ask—as if Chris will say no to feeling Darren’s fingers work through his hair. Either way, allowing Darren to suck on his ear seems to be enough assent (even if it does mean that Darren has to  _stop_  sucking on his ear).

Chris feels pliant and loose in a way he rarely does anymore, tilting his head back as Darren hums and wets Chris’s hair with the warm water cupped in his hands. His eyes flutter shut, only just hearing the  _snap_  of the shampoo top, and then Darren’s hands are lathering it in his hair.

There’s a fluttery little sigh that slips from his lips as Darren just scratches at his scalp, fingernails shooting spirals of electricity down through Chris’s neck and spine. The bathroom is quiet in a serene kind of way, save for the random shuffles in the water when Chris or Darren shifts their body weight. Darren’s fingers tangle into Chris’s hair, scrubbing deep in a sinfully good way before skittering away in gentle caresses down the sides of his neck and over his shoulders. He works his way back, through the hair at the nape, before Darren slides his palms up and repeats the process.

“This isn’t washing my hair,” Chris groans, leaning back into the touch. “This is a full on massage.”

Darren chuckles, hands swooping over the shape of Chris’s head. He leans in, kissing the wet skin of Chris’s neck, before softly whispering, “and it’s an excuse to give you a mohawk.”

It takes a moment for the comment to register, but then Chris can feel the telltale motions of Darren swooping his hair up in the middle of his scalp.

“You’re ridiculous,” Chris whines, trying to bat Darren’s hands away halfheartedly. “And wouldn’t it be a faux hawk?”

Darren hums in consideration, not stopping the motion of his hands and Chris can hardly fault him—it still feels really good. So he gives up on his futile attempts at fighting it, slumping back and letting Darren mold his hair, lacing his fingers through it and dragging against the roots. It continues until Darren tries to make it into some sort of horn and it flops onto Chris’s forehead, making him jerk in surprise and then mumble an annoyed, “ _Darren_.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll wash it out now.” Darren tips Chris’s head back onto his shoulder and then carefully washes the shampoo out, shielding Chris’s eyes with the side of his hand the way a parent does for their child. But it doesn’t make Chris feel like a child—it’s sweet, making Chris’s chest twist up in knots as Darren softly hums and then presses a kiss to his wet, clean hair. It makes Chris feel cherished.

Chris turns his face into Darren’s neck and stays there, reveling in the way Darren’s hand slips down and strokes up and down the curve of his side as the other splays against his stomach.

“How long can we stay here?” Chris asks softly, his nose catching on the end-of-day stubble running down the column of Darren’s neck.

“Until we turn pruney.”

Chris scrunches his nose; his fingers are already feeling a little withered.

“Or when the bubbles disappear. Or when the water gets to cold.” Darren brushes his lips to Chris’s forehead. “Or whenever you want.”

Chris stretches out his legs and moans at the way the still-warm water draws out all the aches and exhaustion.

“The last one. I like the last one.” Chris sighs into Darren’s skin, and then smiles. “You’re magic, you know.”

Darren’s smile stretches against Chris’s hairline, and he wraps his arms fully around Chris’s waist, pulling him closer and holding him tight.

“I love you, too,” Darren whispers, because he understands what Chris is saying even when he isn’t saying it.


End file.
